


put your finger on my trigger

by leiascully



Series: Five Times Kara Thrace Kissed A Girl And Liked It [3]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-02
Updated: 2008-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not looking for absolution.  Just a little oblivion."</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your finger on my trigger

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: late-S2  
> A/N: Well, [**coffeesuperhero**](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/), there you are: your Kara/Kendra and your [boots](http://www.bluefly.com/Jimmy-Choo-black-patent-leather-Shay-buckle-boots/SEARCH/214423700/detail.fly). Title from a song I heard in a shop somewhere, whose title and artist I don't know.   
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

"Wouldn't have thought to see you here, XO," you say, slinging yourself into the chair next to Kendra's. You look her up and down, obnoxious and insouciant. She's wearing a halter dress in some cloudy, slippy fabric with a hint of sparkle, and the hottest frakking boots you've ever seen, the kind of boots that make you want to get down on your knees and beg. "Nice shoes."

"Commander told me if he saw me in CIC before tomorrow, he'd relieve me indefinitely," she mutters, in that sexy little lilt. "Might as well have a drink."

"Better scenery in here than in the kitchens?" you smirk, and sip at your drink. You're not looking bad yourself: tight black satin is suitable enough for this classy bar. She glares at you. You crimp the corners of your lips and flirt your eyes at her over the rim of your glass.

"Marginally," she says at last. She must have had a few already; she almost never talks to you.

"Oh, Major, you wound me," you drawl, just itching to get under her skin. Lee's been bugging you and you can't quite figure Cain out and you weren't really looking forward to your evening off until you walked in and saw Kendra's narrow bare shoulders over the back of her chair. It's been a while since you've been to this bar; there seem to be more civilians around, or maybe it's just that you don't go to Cloud Nine anymore except on missions. Come to think of it, you've got a mission tonight, and that's to get as drunk as possible and forget Lee and Anders and the disappointment and defeat in Bill Adama's eyes when you left. You might as well entertain yourself in the meantime.

Kendra isn't falling for it. "What exactly do you want, Captain?"

"Just a little company, Major," you say. "Everybody's got a different way of getting through the nights." You lift your eyebrows meaningfully and touch your neck as you fish the olive out of your glass with your other hand. Her jaw clenches.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere, Captain," she grits out.

"Well," you say in a lah-dee-dah voice, "_Major_, if you feel that way, why didn't you say so?" You rap your knuckles on the bar. "Barkeep! A bottle of your finest whatever isn't going to kill us. Make it snappy. I've got better places to be."

He rolls his eyes but slides a bottle across the bar. You drop a few cubits and flounce after Kendra, who is turning heads as she stalks across the room. It's those godsdamn glossy boots with the buckles: you feel like a dog on a leash, panting after them.

You follow her down a corridor and then another corridor, and then she keys open a door. "Posh," you say.

She almost smirks - just a ghost of a quirk of her porcelain mouth - and puts her hand on the door handle, keeping it open a crack. "I think the Commander wanted to be certain I wasn't on the ship."

You lounge against the wall. She's standing there, sizing you up, still the perfect little toy soldier even in her ridiculously girly dress and those frakking boots. You're staring her down, feeling butch and awkward with your short hair and the muscles tense in your stomach, holding the bottle like it'll save you.

"Come in if you like," she says finally, and you snap to like it's an order. Her voice is like a whipcrack in your ears. You want to obey her and it surprises you. You've never been the one to go above and beyond unless it was forbidden, but you'll follow the letter of her law tonight. She pushes open the door and you slip past her, demure and submissive, and put the bottle on a table. She click-clacks her way in behind you and pushes the door closed. You've got your hands on her hips and her against the door before she can even turn around; you're kissing the back of her neck and the bare skin of her shoulder and you're untying the knot of her dress with your teeth. She turns calmly in your arms and undoes your shirt buttons until you have to back up so that she can take it off you. The halter of her dress has fallen down and her small perfect breasts gleam in the artful lighting of the cabin.

You would have taken her for the kind of woman to peel off only as much of your clothes as it took to frak you, but she strips you down to the skin, and you get the feeling she'd strip you down to the bone if she could. Your fingers don't fumble as you skin her out of her dress: she's standing there in her knickers and boots and you're surprised her dogtags don't chink as they touch her skin, because she's still cold and certain as ice.

"This isn't quite fair," you say, crossing your arms sort of over and sort of under your breasts, not sure whether to flaunt or to hide, and there's that ghost of a smile on her face again.

"Feel free to even the odds," she says, and you shiver. You cross the room to kneel in front of her. She looks down at you, her eyes half-closed. You kiss her hipbone, trying to keep your eyes on hers, but you lose focus and all you can see are the tiny goosebumps on her flank. You close your eyes, marking the shape of her bones with your teeth. You kiss all across the line where the hem of her knickers sit above her pelvis before you peel them down slowly, dragging your cheek down her thigh. She's so smooth, hardly a hair on her body. You put your tongue in the dimple behind her knee and she shivers, finally. Slowly, slowly, you take the zipper of the boots between your teeth and draw it down, nudging her onto one foot so that you can tug the boot off at the end. Her balance is exquisite; her fingers graze your shoulder but she stands steady on her one stiletto heel as you cup her other foot in your hand. You slide off the stocking she wore underneath by shucking your palm down her leg, still moving more slowly than you think you've ever gone, waiting for her to say _faster_ or _more_, but she just waits, completely in command, and you're not going to break her. You roll the stocking down over her toes, kiss the top of her foot, and release her. She stands composed, one hip four inches higher, and lets you take off her other boot: now you're both down to skin, just your dogtags dangling between your breasts, strange reflections of each other.

"Now what?" you say.

"And here I thought you had all the answers, Captain," she says.

You pause, licking your lips. "I want you to tell me."

"I'm not your absolution," she says.

"I'm not looking for absolution, Major," you say, stepping closer. "Just a little oblivion."

She narrows her eyes at you. "I don't hear that you take orders."

"I can make an exception," you say. Another step. You're unsteady on your bare feet; the carpet's too lush.

"On your knees," she says, impassive, and you drop, your belly nearly brushing hers. You skim your palm over her hip and down the back of her slender thigh. She seems to consider this, but as your fingers slip down to curl around her ankle, she tenses. "Hands to yourself, Captain." You open your mouth to protest, staring up the plane of her sternum, but she quirks an eyebrow and you subside, brushing your lips over her thighs instead of your fingertips. You nudge her legs apart until she's standing almost at ease. She puts her hand on your head. Her fingers splay over your crown, her touch delicate, and you feel like a marionette, dangling from her palm. You press your mouth to the crease of her thigh, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise; her fingers tighten briefly and then relax.

For a moment you just breathe into the space between her thighs, your forehead pressed to her lower belly, until her fingers tremble. You're waiting for her order; she's waiting for you; she's going to win and you both know it, because you were under her command from the moment she slid out of her seat at the bar. You lick your lips and taste her skin, and then tip your head back to look at her again. She's staring down at you like she's hypnotized. You narrow your eyes in satisfaction and nuzzle at her thigh, finally settling forward and parting her folds with your tongue. She's saltier than the olive in your martini, tangier, intoxicating. You suck at her, swirling your tongue over her smooth flesh, pushing your tongue in as deep as you can and dragging your mouth over the rougher place that makes her hiss between her teeth. Your cheek is jammed against her thigh and your breast is heavy and tight against her knee; your whole body is desperate for her and your mouth can't express it all, but gods, you're trying.

Your hands are white-knuckled on your thighs with how much you want to touch her, but gods, there's an edge to her voice that you can't disobey, not tonight, and she told you to keep your hands to yourself. You wonder if that means you can touch yourself. You slide your hand up your body, weighing your breast, your fingers brushing her knee, testing her, but you have to touch something, gods, even if it's your own skin. You sit back just enough that there's air between your hand and her leg, but still there's the electric prickle between her bones and yours and you push your tongue into her over and over until her legs are trembling and her hand flattens over your head, pushing you back. She looks down at you: you know your face is hot from your arousal and hers and your mouth is slick and you've still got your hand cupping your breast, guilty as a teenager in the back of a truck.

"Get on the bed," she says, her voice not even quivering, but her eyes are huge and there's a high flush on her cheeks, and you comply with a little thrill of triumph. She climbs neatly up next to you. "Lie back." You spread yourself over the bed and gods, her mouth is on your breast and her fingers are inside you, and you moan.

"You really are a razor, aren't you?" you pant.

"Cuts through the bullshit," she says against your neck, and nips you. It's not playful. It's not passionate, exactly. It's the purest desire you've ever felt, and the keenest, and you can't help writhing under her. She stretches out against you, still frakking you with her fingers, kissing your mouth now, and somehow the sheer detachment in her demeanor drives you wild. She kisses you like she's calculating a jump, the look you've seen on her face in the CIC when she's staring into the monitors, beyond the red line of her mind, out of reach. The only sign you're getting to her at all is the color of her skin and the glitter in her eyes when she's far enough away to focus on. "Hands on, Captain."

You have your hands all over her and it's not enough, you can't touch her, but at least you can finally reach inside her and twist your fingers until she gasps. There's something: you expect it to blunt her edge, but it only makes her keener, sharper, faster. Somehow she's all edges. You're clutching her shoulderblade. Her hipbone grates against yours. You feel her teeth against your lip. You can't even tell how much of her hand is inside you now, because her thigh's wedged between your legs and the pressure is too much. You're out of your mind, your pleasure caught in your throat, so that all you can produce is a stuttering groan as your systems short. It's like flying through Galactica's firing solution: bursts of light, the bed under you shuddering, trying desperately to hold on to enough of your brainpower to bring her with you. "Come on, come on," you whisper against her cheek, and then you flip yourself over and pin her, kissing the slope of her chest, your hip canted roughly into the crease of her thigh and your fingers working and working as you gasp and shiver, and suddenly she's trembling at your frequency, a quick crescendo as you decrescendo, but she makes no noise as her back arches and her hands clutch the covers.

You collapse on her, gulping at the air, and lie there tangled together until your heart rate has evened out enough that the thrum of blood in your ears doesn't deafen you. Then you roll over, stretching out on the edge of the mattress. She seems to have recovered already. She watches you with cat's eyes, utterly self-possessed despite her nakedness and the marks of your kisses. You close your eyes, concentrating on breathing, and when you can breathe through your nose again without having to gasp, you slip off the edge of the bed and start to drag your trousers on. You catch sight of her boots abandoned on the floor next to your shoes and shiver. If she snaps her fingers, you'll stay, or go, or whatever she wants. You want her to snap her fingers. You want to be out from under her spell. You want her to put on the boots and make you beg. You want to see her in the CIC and think of her with the top of her dress undone by your teeth. You want to strut past her in the hallway and not even see her. But she says nothing until you're buttoning up your shirt.

"I was right about you."

You do up the last buttons. "That makes two of us."

"Are you going?" she says, not sounding at all interested. Her eyes are half-closed.

"You tell me," you say.

She studies you. "You're a sharp one, Kara Thrace," she says at last.


End file.
